Home Sweet Anywhere: How We Sold Our House, Created a New Life, and Saw the World

270 Pages·2014·1.46 MB·English

by  Lynne Martin

Copyright © 2014 by Lynne Martin Cover and internal design © 2014 by
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This book is a memoir. It reflects the author’s present recollections of her
experiences over a period of years. Some names and characteristics have been
changed, some events have been compressed, and some dialogue has been re-
created.
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Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Introduction
Chapter 1: Packing Up
Chapter 2: On the Road
Chapter 3: Mexico
Chapter 4: Buenos Aires
Chapter 5: Transatlantic Crossing
Chapter 6: Turkey
Chapter 7: Paris
Chapter 8: Italy
Chapter 9: Britain
Chapter 10: Ireland
Chapter 11: Morocco
Chapter 12: Return to California
Chapter 13: Portugal
Epilogue: Postpone Nothing
The Learning Curve: Things the Guidebooks Won’t Teach You
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Cover
For Tim, my muse, my love, and my boon companion.
Introduction
Smart people do not loiter at the Colombia Bridge, nor anywhere else near the
border in Laredo, Texas.
Nevertheless, this is exactly what my husband, Tim, and I found ourselves
doing at dawn on a sparkling June morning as we anxiously waited for someone
to come along and tell us the correct procedure for crossing the border into
Mexico. Expats who often made the trip we were about to embark upon
instructed us to use the bridge, not the more heavily traveled main border
crossing, which is famous for delays and gunplay between drug dealers and
border guards. But directions from our unlovely hotel to the bridge had been
hard to acquire, and as we struck out shortly after dawn, we were still not sure if
we had it right. The freeway intersecting the city was too new for our map,
Google was inconclusive, and the hotel staff was clueless. Needless to say, we
were a little nervous.
We’d stayed up too late the night before looking for a route, our iPhones and
laptops blazing. It would be a ten-hour trip—provided there weren’t any
surprises. We had to time it just right, crossing the border early before the
crowds, so we could arrive in the Central Mexican mountain town of San Miguel
de Allende before dark. Smart people also avoid roaming around Mexico at
night.
Finally some people arrived and entered the border office building. So we
stopped loitering and entered as well to find the employees engaged in a lively
recap of their weekend activities. We approached the desk hesitantly, clutching
our customs documents. An official, clearly annoyed at our interruption, curtly
glanced at our paperwork, relieved us of several hundred dollars for the auto
entry fees, banged our passports with a faded stamp, and instructed us to wait for
the gate to open so that our car could also be inspected.
Once again, we found ourselves waiting anxiously for another official to
arrive. When she did, the challenge of pawing through our SUV, crammed with
luggage and gifts for our Mexican friends, which we had disguised to avoid
hefty duty fees, proved too much for her. After a couple of desultory questions,
she waved us through the last barrier standing between us and our newly minted
expat lifestyle. We were on the road.
The border crossing marked our first step toward traveling internationally full
time and finally living in places we longed to see. For years in our separate lives,
we had just dreamed of going to all these places. Now we were finally making it
a reality. But even more importantly, our ability to take on the world without a
home base full of familiar things was also rooted in the joy my husband, Tim,
and I experienced at finding one another again after a thirty-five-year hiatus.
Our torrid two-year relationship in the 1970s had ended painfully because our
timing was wrong. Tim was a brilliant, handsome, sexy lyricist living a
financially risky Hollywood existence in the unfettered style of that decade. I
was a dynamic tall blond with a demanding career in public relations. We had
been friends when we were married to the parents of our children, and when
those marriages dissolved for different reasons, we rediscovered one another
quite by accident and fell madly in love on the spot. It was a glorious two years,
but with two little girls and a ranch-style house in the San Fernando Valley to
take care of, I didn’t have the courage or energy to marry Tim and his
freewheeling lifestyle, even though I wanted desperately to be with him.
Thirty-five years later, I answered the door and welcomed Tim into my home.
He had phoned a few days earlier, saying he was planning to visit Cambria, the
seaside village in Central California where I had lived for fifteen years. I could
not have anticipated what happened next. I thought our connection would have
settled into its proper slot in my life’s experience. When I accepted his offer to
stop by for a brief catch-up, I told myself that he was a former lover from eons
ago and now a valued friend, nothing more.
Not so. The minute I looked at him, the years disappeared. My heart knew
that he was mine, I was his. That was all there was to it. We were in serious
trouble.
“I’m so happy to see you, Tim,” I said, smiling. Before he could answer, my
husband, Guy, called, “Who’s here?” from his studio downstairs.
My husband was a well-known illustrator/artist, popular with everyone. We
had everything we wanted—a happy, loving marriage and comfortable life, a
perfect garden, a terrific kitchen, a working art studio, and great spaces for
entertaining. It was idyllic except for one monstrous reality: Guy was
succumbing fast to Alzheimer’s disease.
Tim had arrived on one of Guy’s lucid days. The three of us chatted in the
afternoon sun, enjoying the views of the Pacific through pine trees that meander
down to the Cambria beach. At that point, Tim had been settled down for years
and owned a small electronics manufacturing business, a far cry from his former
rock-star days. He amused us with wild tales about that frantic industry. The
conversation was going well, but when Tim mentioned that his marriage of
twenty years was ending, I felt my carefully constructed world tilt.
When he left, we parted as old friends should—with a peck on the cheek and
a fond hug. We simply could not speak of the obvious. Time would continue to
rob us.
It was an impossible situation. My husband required my loyalty and devotion,
and of course my heart still lay with him. We loved each other dearly, and for
twenty years I had enjoyed the responsibility of making our lives run smoothly
and playing the part of his muse while he pursued his active, successful career as
an artist. Watching Guy’s mind slip away was breaking my heart. I needed to
stay focused, and yet my desire to never let Tim out of my sight again was
equally compelling. I was miserable, afraid, and jubilant. I was in love.
The next few months were pure anguish. Guy lost ground every day; finally,
for his own safety, our doctor told us that he needed to be in a facility for
Alzheimer’s patients. He had reached the point where he needed the level of
supervision I couldn’t provide at home. Guy said, as we walked into the common
living room, “My dear, what a lovely hotel. Did you know that it’s famous for its
restaurant?” I was devastated. He settled in immediately and never inquired
about our former life again. Three years later, he passed away—and eventually
my new life began.